


a pale imitation that burns in my eyes

by bepsicoola



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Major Spoilers, Minor Religious Themes, Minor mentions of homophobia, angelo has flashbacks, nero has nightmares, non-explicit mentions of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22660408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bepsicoola/pseuds/bepsicoola
Summary: on sleepless nights angelo and nero seek the guidance of dead men.
Relationships: Angelo Lagusa | Avilio Bruno/Nero Vanetti
Comments: 1
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the title is a line from "amen" by amber run.  
> these are mainly a sort of stream of consciousness. angelo's chapter takes place after corteo's death but before the Big Tragedy at the play house.

i look at the empty chair, moonbeams illuminating the expensive fabric. corteo, where have i gone wrong? corteo, when did it stop becoming about getting close to nero? corteo, should i have listened to your advice?

the empty space stares back at me, judgemental hallucination piercing me with all of my sins up to this point. my eyes droop and i don't know where to begin. when did the smiles that crossed my face become genuine? when did the sinking feeling in my gut when i saw nero's face turn into butterflies and weak knees?

my hands tremble and i reach into my breast pocket for my lighter and grab a cig from the coffee table. as i watch the smoke twist and swirl, illuminated by the full moon, flecks of dust dancing around it. suddenly i'm a child again. running for my life, lungs filled with frozen air and puffs of breath frantically spinning in the darkness. my chest feels like it's going to bust, my stomach like i'm about to vomit.

a gunshot rings out but the bullet vastly misses its mark.

my hands tremble.

i slip and fall in the snow but i get back up and keep running.

i take a drag of my cigarette to calm me.

why can't things be black and white?

corteo, when did my resolve falter? did you notice? did you try to get rid of nero because you watched me fall for him? did you notice the look in my eyes when he approached? how i gravitate towards him and his imposing stance, confidence leaking out of his pores? corteo, were you jealous? did you want me to look at you like i looked at him?

... no, of course you wouldn't, corteo. you just wanted to be a brother to me. i drop my cigarette and feel the soft crunch against thethin carpet when i stomp it out. i run my hands through my hair, but i can't help wish they were nero's; thick palms and meaty fingers, an opposing match for my own. perhaps in another life, i could have been an artist or musician with hands like these. instead of creation, they seek to destroy.

an opposing match to nero's, which seek to hold my soft skin and slender body as if it were prcelain. if he only knew. if only he knew the intentions of this empty shell. if only he could continue treating my body like the idol of loyalty and good intentions that he believes it to be.

corteo, why couldn't i keep my emotions in check with nero? was it because i'd never felt anything like what he offered to me? was it due to the novelty of his puppylike affection?

i think of his and my kisses, stolen under moonlight, corteo. i think of them often. of those hands, used for protecting morals and family and trust, cupping my cheeks with hesitance. of nero's chapped lips meeting my own, his goatee against my skin. i think of the nights those hands wandered up and down my body, delicate touches against my pale skin aglow with moonlight. he would stare at me with near reverence, corteo. i remember his tears when he first told me how beautiful he thought i was, corteo, and i can't get it out of my mind.

despite his overflowing trust in me, despite how drenched in sugar and rosewater the memories i share with nero are, i want to drag him into the inky depths of despair that i feel day and night. he thinks he understands me; what i seek to do would make him truly understand.

how can i reconcile these two halves of myself? the longer i play pretend as avilio bruno, the more my younger self, the angelo lagusa that once existed, wishes to break away from the chains of this farce. the more i cradle myself to nero's chest and realize he-- like the people whose deaths i've caused up to this point-- has a heartbeat too, the more that the inky tar creeps in my chest and causes emotions to bubble up from the depths.

corteo, i never wanted to feel anything but satisfaction from this plot of mine. why do i find tears pooling in my eyes when i think of hurting nero? when i think of all of the heartache i've caused him and the people around me? corteo, have i even been doing the right thing all along?

my vision of corteo is no longer in front of me.

of course he's not; he never thought this path was the right one in the first place. i grab another cigarette to ease my shaking body, to dry the sobs wracking my body now. i have to stick to my convictions, for my dead family's sake.

i long for the release that chaos among the vanettis will bring me. it's the only hope that my rotten soul has left.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nero's chapter takes place an indeterminate amount of time after the end of the show. this one doesn't feel as raw as the angelo chapter.

i lay in this musty hotel bed and gaze at the moonbeams casting light on the space next to me in bed. my eyes are puffy and i look to the empty chair in the dark corner. lately i've taken to imagining the dead.

papa, i did the wrong thing by trusting angelo. but papa, i can't keep his beautiful face out of my mind. i can't keep his wretched name out of my mouth.   
angelo, angelo.

it fits him perfectly. his face, papa... perhaps you didn't see the same beauty in it that i did, but that's alright. he was like the vanetti's personal angel of death, bringing his vengeance to fruition as if it were divine punishment.

i still think about that night at the play house. about how you had to die in my arms, papa. i still think about shooting frate dead with my own gun. some nights i can't sleep, but the nights i do it's always one of those mistakes repeating until i wake up in a cold sweat.

i still don't know if hate him or love him, papa.

i don't know if i did the right thing by shooting him, papa.

at this point, though, wasn't that just the natural thing to do? i've spent my whole life hardening myself to do what had to be done for the family's good. but should i have shot him dead?   
was any of it even real? the slight upturn in his lip when i'd enter the room? the way he'd lean closer when i spoke? his soft voice during our trysts, how his clammy hands sought mine for warmth? how his slender palms and long fingers intertwined with my own, how our bodies wove together into knots?

papa, is this god's punishment for feeling the same way towards a man that i would a woman? i was never the sort of man to believe in the wrath of god, much less fear it. would i still have longed to marry that gorgeous whirlwind of destruction if i'd went to mass more?

would i have been more prudent, like frate?

would i have resisted the pleading look in those hazel eyes when he asked me to kiss him again?

i roll over in bed and face the chair in the corner. i watch as my father's form dissipates. i let out a sigh and close my eyes for a moment. i can only guess who i'll see next. i know i won't like it.

my lids rise, and i gaze upon that recognizable silhouette. his face is a blessing and a curse, eyes staring listlessly into mine. would things have been different if i hadn't finished you off, angelo? would we be laying in the same bed, sharing our misery in the heavy moonlight?

the cold silence i get in response is far too real. i ponder how much of his love was truth and how much was part of his vile plot once more.

the apparition stares into me with a softer gaze, piercing my poor sinner's soul as if to remind me of the times angelo would longingly gaze at me during our final road trip. the time he fell asleep against my shoulder when we sat by the campfire. he had no need to do these things after his facade had been peeled away. surely that couldn't have been a lie, right?   
or had he gone so far simply to twist the knife deeper into my back once he'd stabbed it?

i wrack my mind with these questions. but i know on nights when visions of angelo visit me he comes to whisk me away to a dream of roses, a bountiful milk and honey stream of what-ifs that could only be fulfilled in my wildest dreams. if i imagine hard enough, i can feel angelo's soft cheek in my hand when i run it along his face as he bends down to peck my forehead.  
he never says anything, of course. but the look in his eyes is all i need in order to know i'm just going mad. that angelo hasn't risen from his deep, briny grave to soothe my worries and return to my arms.

i know, in time, i'll have to find a respectable woman to settle down and have a family with. i'm sure she'll look like him, with hazel eyes and silky, dark hair. pale white skin that almost glows in the moonlight. slender hands that might have taken to some form of artistry. perhaps i'd even call her by his name on accident.

but for now, i can only soak my dreams in the rosewater memories of my angel of revenge.


End file.
